


I need a hero

by TheCivilizedJedi



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Begging, Bodyguard kink, Bossy bottom Luke Skywalker, Competence Kink, Confused Din Djarin, Din Djarin is a mess, Din simps for Luke so hard i can't even tell you, Dom Luke Skywalker, Dom/sub Undertones, Hair-pulling, Himbo Din Djarin, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, Jedi kink, Luke is hard to satisfy, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Obsession, Oral Sex, Overprotective Din Djarin, POV Alternating, Pillow Prince Luke Skywalker, Pining, Possessiveness, Praise Kink, Riding, Rimming, Rough Sex, Service Top Din Djarin, Slow Burn, Soft Din Djarin, Space twink Luke Skywalker, Sub Din Djarin, Topping from the Bottom, Touch starved Din Djarin, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voyeurism, attempts at humor idk, authority kink, luke skywalker is a little shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 23:34:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29000790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCivilizedJedi/pseuds/TheCivilizedJedi
Summary: "A Mandalorian and a Jedi? They'll never see it coming."
Relationships: Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker
Comments: 135
Kudos: 352





	1. I changed my mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand...I'm back on my bullshit!
> 
> The title is obviously inspired by [this post](https://softieskywalker.tumblr.com/post/637963310844854272/what-do-you-mean-this-is-not-what-happened)

“ _Mister Jedi, sir!_ ”

Luke freezes by the hull of his X-Wing. 

Did he just hallucinate that? Because, _surely_ , no one in the entire Galaxy would _ever_ think to address him as–

“Mister Jedi!”

Luke whirls around, his eyes huge with wonder – to where, running towards him across the hangar bay, there comes that Mandalorian guy.

“Please wait, sir!” he calls after Luke, breathless and pleading, his voice still a bit raspy with the tears.

The Child, already seated under the raised canopy of the cabin, squeals with delight at the sight of his father, lifting his little clawed hands into the air. And Luke has to school his astonished expression back into the picture of the perfect Jedi neutrality and freeze in his practiced stance (his bare left hand clasping his gloved cybernetic one in front of him) to meet the wave of desperation that hits against his shields in the Force when the Mandalorian approaches.

The man comes to an abrupt stop before Luke, flushed and disheveled, and almost stands _at attention_ , his left arm wrapped around his helmet and his right one – stiff at his side, as if ready to salute a commander.

“Mister Jedi…” he utters between his ragged breaths, looking absolutely miserable, almost broken. “I’ve changed my mind. Please don’t take my child away from me.”

Luke’s eyebrows shoot up entirely against his will. Even with his tousled hair plastered against his damp forehead and with his eyes still glassy with tears, this man doesn’t look like he is one to beg. _Not for anything._ And yet…

“Please, sir! Take me with you!” he pants. And Luke’s expression must be really shocked, bordering on _terrified_ , because the Mandalorian clearly takes it as a _no_. Otherwise, why in Sith hell would he– 

“I can pay you, sir.” He looks into Luke’s eyes outright _ingratiatingly_ as he pleads. “Whatever you want. I’ll get the money.”

“I don’t–” Luke finds himself too astonished to speak. _Seriously, what the kriff–_

But he doesn’t even get to finish that thought because, in the next moment, there is something looking like a hilt of a lightsaber being pushed into his hands insistently.

“Take it, Mister Jedi. It’s the Darksaber. It’s very valuable. It will make you the king of Mandalore. I’m giving it to you, sir. It’s yours. Just _please_ …”

But Luke immediately draws back, almost on instinct, raising his gloved palm in a forbidding gesture.

“I will _not_ take–” he starts in the most calming tone he can muster, trying to pacify the frantic man in front of him, but he doesn’t give him a chance to finish.

“You want my armor?” he offers instead, his eyes wild, and before Luke can even open his mouth, the Mandalorian is already unclasping his vambraces. “It’s pure beskar. It costs a fortune. Take it, take it, Mister Jedi!”

And for a moment there, all Luke can do is helplessly watch the man’s shaking fingers work the straps and buckles holding his armor in place. Thunderstruck and unable to utter a single word.

Then, thankfully, R2’s indignant beep rips Luke out of his shocked state, urging him to “gather his wits for once”.

Luke’s gloved hand presses to the man’s forearm, stilling his chaotic movements.

“I don’t need your armor, Mandalorian,” he finally manages, knowing full well that taking it would be almost the same as taking this man’s skin and absolutely _terrified_ at the notion.

He is also afraid to even imagine the scale of the attachment this Mandalorian has to the Child if he is so ready, _desperate_ even, to give up everything he has, everything he _is_ just to be close to him.

_Oh, stars!_

Luke gasps and staggers back a little, as if having burned himself, when he feels the tremendous intensity of that connection in the Force, threatening to swallow everything around it.

_Powerful._

A bond between a father and his child – it’s an unstoppable force. And, unwillingly, Luke’s mind flashes back, back – to where there was a black-clad figure on the floor before him; to where his father was dying in his arms; to where he removed his helmet to say goodbye to Luke, taking down the last barrier between them and laying himself emotionally bare – open and vulnerable – to his son.

Yes, _powerful._ That feeling… The courage that it took his father. The courage that it must have taken this Mandalorian. To betray his Creed and take off his helmet. To offer his beskar armor to a complete stranger. To…

 _Fall to his knees_ and _beg_ , grasping at the flaps of Luke’s cloak, “Please, Mister Jedi! I’ll do _anything_. I’ll be scrubbing the floors in your house if you want. I can be useful, I swear… Just don’t take away my son!”

Luke draws in a shaky breath.

A disaster. That’s what it is. That’s what this man before him is.

The one who asked _Luke Skywalker_ if he was _a Jedi_.

The one who, evidently, has no idea what _a Jedi_ even is.

The one who might look like a scruffy, hunky Mandalorian on the outside but is actually…a _soft_ single father under all that beskar of his. 

_Adorable._

Luke’s chest tightens suspiciously.

 _Oh no._ It’s fondness, isn’t it?

Kriff, not again!

He shakes his head, mentally berating himself for having a soft spot when it comes to clueless walking-disaster-dumbasses-for-hire.

And then he sighs. And crouches to pick up the helmet lying discarded on the floor. And puts it back onto that himbo’s disheveled head.

“You are coming with me, Mandalorian.”

_I’m keeping you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is not beta'd, so please let me know if you have spotted any mistakes or typos.  
> [BETA WANTED!]
> 
> I'm planning a multichapter fic, at least 40k words.  
> If you guys like this concept and want me to continue, please consider leaving a comment or come talk to me on my tumblr:<https://the-civilized-jedi.tumblr.com>


	2. Who are all these people?

They are early. For  _ something _ . Din doesn’t know for what exactly, but he is, of course, too shy to ask.

_ Stars _ , they just spent almost eight hours in the Jedi’s cramped X-Wing, and Din still hasn’t worked up enough courage to ask for at least his  _ name _ , let alone… Oh well.

They are waiting on a dusty landing pad, in the shade provided by the X-Wing’s hull, and Din has never been so happy to have his helmet on  _ in his entire life _ because…his cheeks are positively  _ burning _ under it – so much that it is actually making his eyes water.

Although, what does it matter now anyway? The Jedi has already seen his face. Has seen his tears. Has watched him grovel on the ground, his dignity entirely forgotten, as he desperately begged for what the Jedi are said to condemn altogether.  _ His attachment. _

So  _ no _ , Din doesn’t think the Jedi could possibly think any less of him than he already does – even if he saw the two crimson blotches now adorning Din’s cheeks in a manifestation of his utter humiliation.

_ What is your name? _

_ Where are we? _

_ What are we doing here? _

_ What are we waiting for? _

The helmet suddenly feels too small and tight around his head, like there are too many questions to fit inside, and Din catches himself wishing he could just take it off again. Take it off and watch – with his own eyes – how the Jedi lifts Grogu and gently presses into his little wrinkled forehead with his own. A silent conversation that leaves them both with little soft smiles on their faces.

Grogu coos happily, and the Jedi laughs, the clear, melodious sound making Din startle with surprise.

Is this… Is this  _ allowed? _ Are the Jedi even supposed to do that?

Somehow, Din has already pictured them in his mind as aloof and emotionless, almost droid-like.

Although, that droid of his sure does know what emotions are. And he doesn’t hesitate to show it: he bumps into Din’s leg, almost bowling him over, and immediately bursts out whistling a long line of furious expletives, breaking the tender moment between the Jedi and the Child.

“Uh…” Din utters in dismay, taking a quick step away from the angry rolling rust bucket and awkwardly flailing his arms, having no idea how to react. “I– Sorry.”

He feels utterly stupid under the Jedi’s amused gaze.

“ _ Behave _ , R2,” he intervenes mercifully, seeing Din’s bafflement. 

The droid whirrs indignantly and bumps into Din one more time before retreating with a series of irritated noises.

“Uh…” Din says again, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other and not knowing what to do with his hands. “I’m sorry, I’m not good with droids. But I didn’t mean to provoke him or–”

And there it is again – that soft laughter that sends a wave of goosebumps over Din’s body. The Jedi’s eyes crinkle at the corners, and he throws his head back slightly. The Child gazes up at him, his eyes full of wonder. After all, he’s never seen Din laugh like that. Or  _ at all _ , for that matter.

“Whaa!” the kid gasps with fascination, his little hands reaching up to the Jedi’s smiling face, and Din almost staggers back, suddenly overcome with unbearable desire to do just the same and only having stopped himself from reaching out at the very last moment.

_ What the kriff is wrong with him? _

“Please don’t mind R2. He is a little cranky,” the Jedi offers apologetically, but his tone is still laced with barely hidden fondness.

He really loves that stupid droid, doesn’t he?

“Uh…” Din utters for the third time in the last few minutes, hanging his head and mentally smacking it.

_ Very eloquent, you dumbass. Will you stop embarrassing yourself in front of the space wizard already? _

He sighs.

He should probably get used to making a complete fool of himself because…  There are pilots in orange jumpsuits and astromechs rushing around, seemingly in a complete chaos, as they tend to their X-Wings or prepare them for lift-off, but Din can hardly take his eyes off of the Jedi Knight – t he Jedi Knight who is young, and beautiful, and both impressive and adorable at the same time, and Din…doesn’t even know his name.

_ Dank farrik. _

A sudden rattle and the Child squealing in wonder tear Din out of his musings as a strange ship – nothing like the rest of the Starfighters in the hangar – starts her landing procedure right in front of them with a series of suspiciously creaking noises.

_ What a piece of junk,  _ Din thinks distractedly before he notices the Jedi’s gaze light up at the sight of the ship.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” He seems to be outright bubbling with delight as he turns to Din, stars in his eyes.

And Din’s lips part before he can even think about it.

“Yes,” he mutters, “ _beautiful._ ”

And who cares if it’s not exactly  _ the ship _ he is talking about?

The docking ramp falls with a bang, and a petite woman dressed in all white rushes out, her arms outstretched towards the Jedi who immediately steps out of his own ship’s shadow to meet her.

“Luke!” the woman exclaims in surprise when she gets a better look at him. Grogu coos excitedly in the Jedi’s arms and waves his little clawed hand at her.

“You’ve got yourself a baby!” she comes up to place a quick kiss on the Jedi’s cheek and casts a quick amazed look over the Jedi’s shoulder. “And a Mandalorian?!”

The Jedi –  _ Luke _ (Oh, thanks the stars! No need to actually ask him now!) – turns to Din and smiles, beckoning to him to come closer.

“Meet Princess Leia Organa of Alderaan,” he introduces solemnly.

_ Ah, must be the wife.  _ The realization is strangely disturbing. Completely out of nowhere and for no good reason whatsoever, it clenches Din’s chest tightly, not letting him breathe in or out.

And then, of course, it’s just his luck – all the attention is suddenly on him, so he shifts uncomfortably under its suffocating pressure and winces, silently wishing his beskar wasn’t so shiny – so that he could step back into the shadow of the X-Wing and just melt into it. Quiet and inconspicuous.

And there is nothing he can squeeze out of his lungs, except for a short, strangled “Highness.” He also bows – more like nods, really – and prays to all stars that the Princess and the Jedi would just consider him a tough, silent type and not the insecure, repressed trainwreck that he actually is.

What he kriff is wrong with him? Why does it feel like not even an inch-thick layer of beskar can hide him now? Why is he feeling raw and bare under these people’s gazes?

Oh, he would give his rifle right now just for them to stop observing him carefully, with a poorly hidden mixture of pity and amusement.

_ Kriff _ , why does the Jedi have to be so attractive? And why does his wife have to, well… _ be? _ At all? It’s so much stress! Oh, stars! He must be sweating right through his beskar now.

He knows he needs to say something, but, honestly, he’d much rather die than open his mouth again because it’s starting to feel like every word he says in front of the Jedi is nothing but his concentrated stupidity.

Oh, where are all the Krayt dragons when he needs them?! He could totally use one right now. He would jump right into his maw and never ever come back.

As if having read Din’s mind, Grogu suddenly laughs in the Jedi’s arms, clapping his little hands with excitement.

Indeed, little one. Watching your daddy being eaten by a giant sandworm would be much more interesting than watching him, flustered and squirming, die of  _ embarrassment _ . Slowly and painfully. Right in front of this ridiculously beautiful Jedi. Who is also charming. And strong. And, apparently, great with kids. And–

Din’s train of thought suddenly gets derailed when, in the next moment, there is a man running down the ramp of the ship, and Din realizes, with sudden, sobering clarity, that  _ no _ , he doesn’t actually want to hide in the shadows anymore or die an untimely death just to end his humiliation. Or maybe he does, just a little. But he  _ can’t _ . No, he needs to be  _ there _ . Needs to stand by the Jedi’s side, an imposing figure looming behind his fragile-looking one because otherwise…

Otherwise, Jedi or not, people might think it’s actually  _ okay _ to swing their guns in front of him. At least, that’s what that  _ sleemo  _ before them apparently thinks.

And just like that, in less than even a moment, Din finds himself in front of the Jedi, like a living shield, his own blaster at the ready and pointing at the offending man’s chest.

“Stay back, scoundrel!” 

“Get away from him, Mando scum!”

They end up shouting at the same time, and the safety catches of their blasters click off with a deafening sound in the astonished silence that follows.

The Child gurgles behind Din’s back.

A Wookiee roars somewhere nearby.

The Princess giggles, and the Jedi sighs.

“Stop that.  _ Both _ of you.”

“But,  _ sir! _ ” Din grits through his teeth,  _ with emphasis _ , still not lowering his blaster and suddenly ready to argue with the Jedi about his safety with unexpected, newfound confidence.

This is good.  _ This _ he can do. This is his chance to show the Jedi that he can be  _ useful _ , that he can protect–

The man in front of him doesn’t let him finish his frantic, excited thought.

“What the hell are you doing with this bounty hunter, kid?”

_ Kid? _

Din frowns in confusion: the man clearly isn’t talking to  _ him _ anymore. And he can’t possibly be talking to Grogu either. So who the hell is he addre–

There is a light chuckle behind his back.

_ Oh. _

“This  _ bounty hunter _ is my Padawan’s father, Han. So be nice.”

The Jedi’s grin is  _ blinding _ when he steps out from behind Din’s back and puts his hand onto his armored forearm to make him lower his blaster.

“And this is my  _ friend _ , Han Solo,” the Jedi gestures to the scruffy-looking man, not even bothering to hide his fondness. 

_ His friend. _

Ah, but of course!

Din curses his own stupidity and holsters his gun, trying not to show how his hands are shaking under the Jedi’s laughing gaze as he reaches to take Grogu from him and mutters, “Apologies, Mister Jedi, sir.”

_ Stars! _ He, honestly, doesn’t think it is even  _ possible _ to embarrass himself any further, and yet…

A moment passes – almost ringing with silence like a taut string – and now everyone around him bursts out laughing: the Jedi, the Princess, that Han Solo man, the Wookiee slowly emerging from the ship, and, as it seems to Din, even the ship herself.

“He really has no idea who you are, huh?” Han Solo giggles stupidly, shaking his head in disbelief, when the Jedi –  _ Luke _ (he does know his name at least!) – allows him to wrap his arms around him, encircling his waist and squeezing it slightly.

_ Must be the boyfriend, then.  _ Din thinks with a sinking heart as he watches the man gather the laughing Jedi in his arms and whirl him around like he weighs nothing.

At the sight, Din’s hand reaches for his blaster again, seemingly of its own accord.

_ How dares he! _

And right in front of the Jedi’s wife!

Although, hold on a second… A wife? A boyfriend? Are Jedi even supposed to have those?

Din shakes his head, entirely giving up on the idea of understanding anything anymore.

Why does he even care?

He really, really shouldn’t.

He shouldn’t care that some woman has just kissed his Jedi. And it shouldn’t bother him that some man is holding him tenderly against his chest now. 

What  _ should _ bother him though, is that he has just called the Jedi  _ his _ .

Stars, what a mess!

But apparently, that Force of theirs has decided that Din hasn’t had enough yet because, in the next moment, like a sequence of bizarre pictures in a kaleidoscope, the Wookiee roars and almost crushes him in a welcoming embrace, the Child sneezes and spits up on his armor, and Princess Leia Organa, with a pitying look on her face, pats him on the helmet as if it were a droid’s dome.

“Welcome to Chandrila, the capital of the New Republic.”

“Uh…” Din utters helplessly, sweating and close to tears and half-expecting the Jedi’s annoying droid to bump into him again, for good measure – to finish him off completely while he is so overwhelmed and confused, but what he gets instead, is Han Solo’s bone-crushing handshake and a quiet, not even a little threatening whisper as he leans in a bit closer, “You know, Mando, Luke here is actually a prince, so you should probably address him as  _ Your Highness _ .”

Grogu hiccups and laughs again, and Din silently wonders whether anyone would notice if he cried under his helmet right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is not beta'd, so please let me know if you have spotted any mistakes or typos.  
> [BETA WANTED!]  
> If you guys like this concept and want me to continue, please consider leaving a comment or come talk to me on my tumblr:
> 
> <https://the-civilized-jedi.tumblr.com>


	3. He's a hero

_Address him as Your Highness._

Han Solo’s scathing voice reminds Din, ringing and echoing in the frankly embarrassing emptiness of his head, and Din is starting to think he actually should.

Because he really _is_ a prince. And a general. And a hero of the New Republic. The one who destroyed the Death Star. The one who defeated the Emperor. The one who saved the entire Galaxy. That’s who he is. That _boy_ , more than a decade younger than him. The Grand Master of the New Jedi Order, taught by the legendary Masters Obi-Wan Kenobi and Yoda themselves.

_The Luke Skywalker._

And up to this very moment Din has been, apparently, the only one in the entire Galaxy who didn’t know him.

He shakes his head with a groan, looking at the holonet page as though it has personally offended him.

Did he really ask the most famous Jedi of all time if he even _was_ one?

Din moans and hides his flaming face in his palms.

How stupid, _stupid_ …

There is no end to his humiliation. _No kriffing end._

All because, as it turns out, he doesn’t know _shit_ about _fuck_.

And it only occurred to him to at least look some stuff up solely because all of his attempts to _subtly_ ask around have ended in nothing else but people gaping at him in disbelief and then bursting out in outright hysterical laughter.

Yeah…

So here he is, at last – reading through the Republic’s juiciest gossip at three in the morning and finding out that Princess Organa isn’t Luke Skywalker’s wife at all – she is his _sister_ , for stars’ sake! And small as she may look, she is a general too. And she is a leader and a poster girl of the New Republic. And she is actually _married_ to Han Solo, the most famous smuggler with the most iconic ship in the Galaxy (and who is, apparently, also a general now).

Honestly, at this point, Din wouldn’t be surprised if he found out that even their beloved droid – R2D2 – is actually a general too (with all the battles he’s been in and all).

They are all heroes of the Rebellion, and Din is only learning about it all _now_. Because he is an idiot and has evidently been living under a rock all this time, not knowing anything about anything, let alone about the Jedi and their magic.

Perhaps, Bo-Katan was right after all – he was indeed raised in a cult, and their Way isn’t the _only_ way. But right now, it seems to him as though it is the only thing in the Galaxy he actually _knows_ , so he clings to it with the desperation of a drowning man.

And he also looks at a candid holo-image of Luke Skywalker for two hours straight – like a lovesick idiot – trying to convince himself that _this is fine_.

*****

Nothing is fine, and refusing to adapt and abandon his old orthodox Way even now, after he has lived on Chandrila for almost a year and has entirely lost all faith in its _exclusive rightness_ – well, it does seem a little like a cause for concern, actually.

But what is he supposed to do?

He can’t just take off the shell he has been hiding in his whole adult life, can he? No, he is a human version of a Mon Calamari hermit crab, and he has found his home in his armor. It protects him from the cruel, unfriendly world outside. It gives him the sense of connection to something bigger than him, something grand and important – the ancient culture living on through him. And it may be heavy as hell, but its weight is like a calming presence around him, and it feels too good in its security to even consider parting with.

Din sighs, puts on his helmet and heads out of his dusty office, outside – to stand among the obnoxiously smelling flowers by the main entrance to the _New Republic Security Force_ headquarters and look at the buzzing Hanna City through his visor.

He is its Marshal now.

He gets the money and respect appropriate to his rank.

He has a shiny new ship and a big house not far from the Jedi Temple.

He has a good, quiet, almost entirely safe life. And yet…something is _atrociously_ lacking.

What could it possibly be?

Too bad he is too dumb and constantly stressed to figure it out.

So every morning, he just takes Grogu to the Jedi Temple to practice the Force.

And every evening, he prays to that same Force to give him a little more courage and allow him not to turn into a flustered, stuttering mess each time Grogu’s Jedi Master so much as looks at him.

The Force ignores him though. No matter how many times Luke Skywalker has blessed him with it – _May the Force be with you, Mandalorian!_ – it never is. It never goes with him when he enters the silent Temple and walks through its empty corridors. It never follows him to the Halls of Training, or the Archives, or the Meditation Gardens. It leaves him at the doors of Luke Skywalker’s house, and Din always enters alone. Only to freeze like a bantha caught in the headlights of a speeder under the Jedi’s serene gaze.

“Your Highness.” Din always greets him with a bow of his head, and he always rolls his eyes.

“Mandalorian.”

He refuses to call Din by his name as long as Din insists on following Han Solo’s advice, which was no more than “just a stupid joke” apparently.

Din was unaware of that at the time, _obviously_. He was not exactly familiar with the concept of sarcasm: people tend not to use any form of humor around him. _For some reason._ Cara says it’s because of his “engaging personality.” Yeah. Din doesn’t know what that means either.

He only knows that Luke Skywalker is a brother to a princess, and therefore, technically, _a_ _prince_ too, so…

It’s always _Your Highness_ , even though he’s been told countless times that the proper title is _Master Jedi_.

It’s always _Your Highness_ because no one else addresses him – _General Skywalker_ – like that, and it almost feels like something more personal.

It’s always _Your Highness_ , and it’s always _reverent_ – never the taunt it was probably meant to be. It shows the respect the Jedi deserves. And it… Well, even if Din would never, not in a million years, admit it – it is laced with Din’s almost childish fascination.

Luke Skywalker is a _magical_ _prince_ , straight out of a fairytale, and everything about him all but _screams_ it.

Small and delicate, with a halo of golden locks around his angelic face, what else can he possibly be?

Even his dark, almost funereal garb and his assumed aloof attitude cannot hide the fact that, underneath it all, he is nothing but a ray of sunshine.

Bright and beautiful. With a radiant smile and eyes full of stars.

Pure and innocent, no matter what he has had to go through.

Uncorrupted, despite the insane, tremendous power he wields.

Graceful and dignified, gentle and kind.

And _dangerous_ (Din always reminds himself not to forget that one). Effortlessly in control. Commanding the very fabric of reality around him. An army inside one boy.

Is that how that Force of his supposed to work?

Din doesn’t know. Still. He wouldn’t _dare_ ask. He barely manages to even breathe every time he has the pleasure of watching the way the Jedi carries himself – in such a strong, self-assured fashion that he almost _radiates_ power. And every time, the little hairs on Din’s nape immediately bristle, his instincts flaring up in warning, reminding him that there is a danger hiding right in front him, and this small and charming wizard boy is actually someone who holds the most information about the Galaxy while Din knows _nothing_. Someone who flies like an ace and can blow up a Death Star with a single shot while Din’s _Razor Crest had_ to suffer more rough landings than he could count before she perished. Someone who could decimate an entire platoon of dark troopers without so much as breaking a sweat, slicing through them as though they were nothing, while Din himself barely managed to incapacitate even a single one.

All that knowledge. All that skill. All that power. It is unnatural. And it _is_ dangerous. And it is…hotter than the Tatooine desert.

The kriffing Jedi and his kriffing perfect...well, _everything_ , actually. But mostly fighting skills. Yeah.

Din can’t help but bite his lip as he flushes bright red under his helmet every time he remembers that day on Moff Gideon’s ship.

The way the Jedi showed up, _Deus ex Machina_ , an unstoppable force that came to rescue his son from the evil droids, blessing him with a new hope in the same way Mandalorian warriors once did it for a little Din Djarin hiding in a storage cellar – it all has awakened something in Din. Something that is now constantly stirring under his skin. Something that pours low in his belly – hot and syrupy. Something that spills out onto his cheeks in bright crimson every time he so much as remembers what the Jedi can do. How _well_ he can do it.

The ultimate warrior. Deadly and perfect in every way. Din sure can appreciate that. _As a Mandalorian._

Yes, it is just _that_. Just some proper respect and maybe the tiniest bit of admiration for the Jedi’s skill, okay? Nothing _weird_. Nothing inappropriate. Not at all.

_Not at all._

And he sure as hell doesn’t mean to spy on his son’s teacher. It’s just… The door to the Halls of Training is slightly ajar and he cannot resist peeping in.

*****

Luke Skywalker is not like any other warrior Din has ever seen. And he has seen _plenty_.

Yet none of them moved quite like the Jedi – both elegant and murderous at the same time, powered by eerie, inhuman grace.

He seems _fluid_ as he goes through his katas. A dancing tongue of flame.

And Din can watch him forever, enchanted and enraptured, unable to tear his gaze away. Infatuated with his magic and abilities. Obsessed with the way his emerald blade hums its own tune and dances to it in intricate, exquisitely graceful patterns. Swift and harsh – it cuts through anything but Mandalorian steel, and Din doesn’t know if he should be relieved or concerned: he doesn’t like things that could potentially harm even a Jedi. Things that could be a _threat_. And, of course, it’s just his non-existent luck that he literally has to _wear_ that threat every day, covered in it head to toe.

Oh, kriff. How the hell is he supposed to make the Jedi like him if he can never even feel entirely safe around him? And he probably shouldn’t. After all, who in their right mind would pick up their child from school only to return a couple of hours later to secretly watch said child’s young and beautiful teacher like a total creep?

Yeah, _exactly_.

Not healthy at all, Din. You should walk away while you still can. Just leave the intel you’ve brought on the desk in his study and go.

Just _leave_.

But he can’t.

He can’t move.

He can’t look away.

His gaze seems somehow inexplicably _glued_ to the Jedi’s sweat-covered, virtually _glowing_ skin.

_Naked_ skin.

Because he has finally removed his dark Jedi attire and changed into a pair of more practical workout pants and a T-shirt.

And now Din can finally see his arms. His _gorgeous_ , toned arms. And his sweet, delicious, round a–

“Is there something you want, Mandalorian?”

The sudden question almost makes Din jump out of his skin and, _thankfully_ , choke on his own saliva before he has the chance to answer that question with the first thought that has come to his otherwise empty mind – that yes, _kriff yes_ , he does _want_ …something.

The Jedi stops his movements and freezes with his back to the door and his lightsaber lowered.

He doesn’t even turn to look at Din – just tips his head slightly down and to the side to show that he is listening.

Only there is nothing to hear. Because Din has literally nothing to say to explain his behavior. His head is totally, absolutely, entirely _void_ of any coherent thoughts.

He could probably at least apologize, but he isn’t exactly sorry.

So what else is there to say?

Din gulps, pulls the door all the way open and steps inside the training room.

As if in some kind of trance, he walks towards the Jedi – closer and closer – like a stupid moth fascinated by the sight of a bright flame. He doesn’t care. He wants to burn.

“Well?” The Jedi whirls around in one swift motion, his crackling blade freezing – hot and dangerous – mere inches away from Din’s vulnerable, unprotected neck.

A line he shouldn’t cross.

No matter how badly he wants to tear off his useless helmet and just bury his nose in the Jedi’s damp, sweat-slicked hair, breathing his lungs full until he is dizzy. No matter how terribly his hands are shaking with the restrained desire to slide up and down the golden skin of the Jedi’s arms. No matter…

There isn’t even a barrier between them – there are _two_. The Mandalorian beskar and the Jedi lightsaber. The two extinct civilizations reminding Din of their ancient feud. Their faint glimmer – polished metal and hot, green plasma – are reflected in the dark, dangerous depths of the Jedi’s eyes.

Flashing alert lights. 

_A warning._

But for a second there, Din fears he is just stupid enough to ignore it – Tin Man who does have a heart but, regrettably, no brain.

“Will Grogu get one of these laser swords?” he rasps out, and not even his modulator is able to hide how his voice is cracking with the nerves and…well, _arousal_. Sudden. Gratuitous. Inappropriate. Stupid. Ridicu–

“No.” The train of Din’s thought crashes against the single word out of Luke Skywalker’s mouth.

Din hangs his head.

And not because he is upset that his fifty-year-old _toddler_ son is not going to get a dangerous weapon. After all, it was just another silly question Din had to ask simply to fill the awkward silence. And he’s not upset by the answer. Not at all. That would be just _ludicrous_ and–

“But he will get yours,” the Jedi reassures, and Din exhales with relief.

“And mine,” the Jedi continues, extinguishing his blade and stepping back.

“What?” Din perks up, frowning under his helmet. His hands involuntarily tighten into fists at his sides when a hundred of scenarios – one horrible scene after another – flash through his mind, showing him _exactly_ the situations when Luke Skywalker may no longer need his lightsaber.

“ _Eventually_ ,” the Jedi elaborates hastily, emphasizing the word, as if it could actually calm Din’s panic down. “You do realize he will outlive us both, right? And by much.”

“Well, I…” Din mentally curses himself for being such an idiot. All this time he has spent with Grogu, and it has never once occurred to him that he probably won’t even get to hear his first words.

The realization is like a punch to the gut, making the air rush out of Din’s lungs with what sounds suspiciously like a sob.

The Jedi frowns, as if having sensed Din’s despair, even though he cannot actually see the devastated expression on his face.

“You’re not gonna actually cry under that bucket of yours, are you?” He narrows his eyes in suspicion.

“No,” Din lies. “I just don’t want Grogu to have the cursed Darksaber. _I_ don’t even want to have it myself.”

The Jedi’s brows crawl up in surprise.

“Why? Isn’t it a huge honor?”

“It’s a huge target on my back, that’s for sure,” Din grumbles under his breath. “And I can’t exactly afford that now that I have a child to take care of.”

They have never exactly talked about it before, the Jedi too polite and Din – too embarrassed to bring it up after what happened the day they first met.

“I see.” The Jedi tilts his head to the side, his expression unreadable.

There is a long pause while he runs his appraising gaze up and down Din’s form, as if contemplating something.

“You must learn how to use it to protect yourself,” he finally states. “I will teach you.”

“No, I– Uhm…” Din shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other, hoping that the Jedi won’t notice his careful retreat. “I should… Uh…” He gestures awkwardly to the door and even manages a few steps backward before the Jedi’s voice virtually grabs him by the scruff of the neck and hurls him back to the training mat.

“It was not a _suggestion_ , Mandalorian. And you have not been dismissed just yet.”

“I…” Din utters, struggling to breathe. He licks his lips, he opens his mouth, he tries again – but the words of refusal come out strangely distorted. In fact, they sound strangely like a “ _Yes, sir_.”

And the Jedi smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is not beta'd, so please let me know if you have spotted any mistakes or typos.  
> [BETA WANTED!]  
> If you guys like this concept and want me to continue, please consider leaving a comment or come talk to me on my tumblr:
> 
> <https://the-civilized-jedi.tumblr.com>


	4. The winner takes it all

It’s true what they say – Mandalorians really  _ are  _ attracted to people who are proficient in combat.

Or maybe it’s just him, poor stupid Din Djarin having a competence kink the size of a Star Destroyer.

Yes, that’s probably it, yet somehow, Din highly doubts that  _ anyone _ who has eyes would be able to draw them away from Luke Skywalker  _ fighting. _

_ He _ most definitely can’t. No matter how hard he tries. No matter for how many months in a row his sorry Mandalorian ass has been handed to him by the dainty Jedi boy just because, during their sparring sessions he shamelessly stares at him half the time and forgets to fight altogether. But how can he possibly look away, when…

It might be a mild concussion, of course, but right now, in Din’s vision, Luke Skywalker’s delicate and graceful form seems to be framed by hundreds of sparkling stars.

_ Perfect-perfect-perfect _ , they jingle lightly as they twinkle in mesmerizing patterns, treacherously luring Din closer,  _ closer _ – until his beskar meets the sizzling green of the Jedi’s blade.

_Oh, no!_ _Not again!_

The Darksaber springs out of his grip as soon as Luke’s lightsaber freezes at his throat: the blasted thing is like a poisonous snake in Din’s hand, always trying to bite him and slink away.

_ Kriff. _

“You are not paying attention, Mandalorian,” the Jedi chides in mild annoyance, stepping back and taking the heat of his blade with him. Strangely, Din immediately misses it.

He shakes his head. He must have hit it pretty hard the last time he fell to the ground in defeat if he believes that the deadly warmth of the Jedi’s sword inches away from his neck feels  _ nice _ .

He shouldn’t be thinking like that. And  _ green _ should equal  _ danger _ . Should equal pain and death. But instead…

Green is a tingly sensation running down his spine.

Green is a rush of adrenaline making his breath get stuck in his throat.

Green is exciting, and enticing, and  _ electric _ .

Green…might be the last kriffing thing Din is gonna see if he doesn’t pay attention, blast it!

He clumsily tries to duck at the very last moment, but too late – and the Jedi’s lightsaber hits the top of his helmet with a loud  _ bonk! _

The sound seems to reverberate inside Din’s very skull.

The stars around Luke Skywalker’s head cluster together and pour into one corner of Din’s vision when he, as if in slow motion, starts careening to the side.

He sprawls at the Jedi’s feet in an undignified pile of limbs and beskar, and he leans over him, a flap of his garment unfastened and its white interior in a startling contrast with the black outer fabric.

Din can see his bare neck.

He can see his  _ bare neck _ .

And that’s the  _ only _ thing he can see – the sole clear spot in his otherwise blurred vision. And it’s the only thought in his empty head too: he can see the Jedi boy’s bare neck.

His hand reaches up to touch it – to trace the line of the jugular vein pulsating under the tender skin – before the idea even has a chance to register in Din’s mind.

_ Oh no. _

What the hell are you doing, Din Djarin? How dare you even thi–

But, thankfully, the Jedi takes the lifted hand as a prompt to help his unlucky sparring partner to his feet. He grabs it and yanks him up, and Din can almost hear his sense of balance  _ screeching _ in protest.

“Uh…” he utters, swaying on his unsteady feet, and stares at the Jedi imploringly.

_ Please no more training. I’d rather die. Please no more… _

But, unfortunately, his pleading puppy eyes are hidden under the helmet where the Jedi can’t see them, and so...

_ More. _

*****

No matter how many times they have done this dance, Din still hasn’t learned to move with the same wiry grace the Jedi does – compared to him, Din feels large and awkward, like a bantha in a Corellian porcelain shop.

They’ve been at it for what seems like hours. Din’s entire body – no, his entire _being_ – hurts. But, _infuriatingly_ , his sparring partner hasn’t even broken a sweat while Din is – once again – sprawled on his back, wheezing with each winded breath in what he hopes is ( _kriffing_ _finally!_ ) his death agony.

And the Jedi is just standing there, completely unruffled, the end of his lightsaber poking at Din’s chest plate where his heart is beating wildly, as if trying to break through from underneath the beskar and impale itself on the green blade just to end its own misery.

Having taken in Din’s pitiful condition, the Jedi withdraws his weapon and steps away, and with a relieved sigh, which actually sounds more like a wet, strangled sob, Din closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the mat beneath him.

“Have mercy, Jedi,” he manages to squeeze out of his lungs, and Luke Skywalker’s face lights up with a grin, his assumed Jedi Master façade immediately slipping away to reveal his irresistible boyish charm.

Shaking his head, he extinguishes his saber and holds out his gloved hand to help Din up. Except, Din doesn’t want to get up. In fact, he isn’t even sure his body will allow him the luxury of standing upright ever again.

The kriffing Darksaber falls out of his loosened grip ( _ again _ ), and he  offers a thankful tip of his head, accepting the proffered hand and moaning in protest despite himself at the painful sensation of being pulled upwards when–

He is abruptly pushed back onto the ground.

He tumbles down like a bag of rocks – except, maybe, rocks don’t groan in pain quite so loudly and definitely don’t  _ swear _ .

“Dank farrik!” he utters in a strangled exhale, and, in the low ringing sound of his head hitting the metal of his helmet from the inside, he hears a quiet chuckle in response.

Din tries to sit up, but there is a sudden shuffle of movement – and he finds himself on his back again, pressed down by the weight of the Jedi’s body on his hips and restrained by his forearm across his chest.

“I  _ could _ show you mercy, Mandalorian,” the Jedi all but  _ purrs _ , against the side of Din’s helmet, “but do you think your enemies would do the same?”

The Jedi’s low-powered blade presses to Din’s throat, warm and crackling with power.

_ Oh. _

_ Oh, stars! _

Din is suddenly smacked across the face with the belated but clear and ringing realization that he  _ likes _ it. Very, _ very  _ much.

The firm and unyielding weight of the Jedi’s body pushing down on him.

The teasing, alluring smirk tugging at his lips.

The dark, satisfied depth revealing itself inside the innocent blue seas of his eyes.

“ If you don’t apply yourself, you’re going to lose your Darksaber, Mandalorian, ” the Jedi warns soberly, but Din is barely listening.

“I  _ want _ to. Please let me, Your Highness.  _ Please _ …” he whispers, hardly registering his own words. His brain is a mush, and all he can do is gulp – purposefully pressing the exposed line of his neck even closer to the green heat of the Jedi’s low-powered blade. It is a stupid and reckless move, for sure, but better  _ this _ than doing what he  _ actually _ wants to do – better than bucking his hips and pressing up against the Jedi’s–

Fortunately, Din cannot finish that  _ disastrous _ thought because, in the next moment, his helmet is suddenly yanked up and off his head, leaving him exposed and gasping for air like a stranded fish.

Oh, what a spectacle he must be making of himself: the indefatigable, stoic Mandalorian – now utterly  _ spent _ , drenched in sweat and panting, wrung out to the point where he has allowed his sparring partner to take off his helmet without so much as a single protest, let alone trying to stop him.

Although… Is it really the fatigue that made him do it? Is it not the fact that he is so delirious with his lust for the Jedi that he can no longer function properly, not to mention care about his blasted helmet?

Besides, Luke Skywalker is the one who put it back on his head that day on Moff Gideon’s ship – when Din didn’t dare do it himself, when Din thought he no longer deserved it. Yes, the Jedi put it back on him –  _ crowned _ him with it like a king of old, bestowing this honor on him, so now it feels like it’s the Jedi’s  _ right _ to take it back off whenever he pleases too: Din Djarin has been shaken out of his shell and is entirely at his mercy, after all.

A pathetic whine escapes his lips as the Jedi’s fingers tighten around a fistful of his damp curls.

“ Have I bested you in a fair fight, Mandalorian?” he asks, looking down at Din, his face an unreadable, emotionless mask of serenity again.

“Yes,” a strangled gasp is all Din can push out of himself as his hands scramble for purchase on the training mat, not finding any.

The Jedi nods with a pleased hum.

“Do you yield to me?”

“Yes!  _ Yes! _ ” Din’s voice breaks with the sudden urgency he feels to utter that word. Like his life depends on it. Like if he doesn’t, Luke Skywalker will just push the helmet back onto his head, locking him inside it as if in a prison cell.

_ No, no, no, no… Please! Look at me! Look at me!  _ Din wants to scream.  _ I want to be seen! Don’t make me go back! _

“I yield! I yield!” he pants instead, his mouth hanging open as he struggles to breathe.

“Then I guess you have just lost your Darksaber to me, Mandalorian.” The Jedi smiles, and his blade turns off with a soft hiss.

He draws back, letting go of Din so suddenly that it leaves him shocked and strangely lightheaded.

The Jedi rises to his feet in one graceful motion and reaches out with his left hand, his right gloved one still holding the hilt of his sword.

The Darksaber springs from the floor and into his grip.

The Jedi inspects it for a moment and then lowers it, along with his own, and both blades shoot to life, spilling down from their hilts – green and black – the exact opposites of each other, like life and death, but both vibrating with the same dangerous, angry energy.

“Perhaps, I should start practicing Jar'Kai now,” the Jedi hums thoughtfully, tilting his head to the side, and Din’s world tilts on its axis along with it.

He cannot move. He cannot even breathe – he just lies there, at the Jedi’s feet,  _ defeated, _ and thinks of how he has never been so  _ relieved _ in his entire life.

And yes, maybe he has chosen a coward’s way out in letting the Jedi take this burden off him, but he cannot make himself fully regret it because…

Because Luke Skywalker looks absolutely, breathtakingly, ethereally  _ beautiful _ like that – all giddy, sparkling energy and deadly grace.

The last of the Jedi, he is the only one who truly has the right to wield the Darksaber as it was made  _ by _ a Jedi and  _ for _ a Jedi. And so it feels only  _ right _ when it’s  _ Luke Skywalker _ who clips it to his hip.

Still unable to breathe, Din awkwardly props himself on his elbows and scrambles up to his knees in front of the Jedi.

“Thank you.” He lowers his head in a reverent bow. “Mand'alor.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” The Jedi waves him off and chuckles with a dramatic roll of his eyes. “Just make sure all the interested parties hear about this and know to come after  _ me _ instead of you and your son from now on.”

Despite his immense relief, Din hangs his head with a long-suffering sigh: he can imagine Bo-Katan will be just  _ thrilled _ to hear the news, and Boba Fett’s hysterical wheezing is going to be heard all the way from Tatooine. But at least, Grogu is no longer a target just because his daddy cannot properly fight with a fancy magic sword.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is not beta'd, so please let me know if you have spotted any mistakes or typos.  
> [BETA WANTED!]  
> If you guys like this concept and want me to continue, please consider leaving a comment or come talk to me on my tumblr:
> 
> <https://the-civilized-jedi.tumblr.com>


	5. Keep your eyes fixed on me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day people!

He should probably stop sneaking into the Temple uninvited. He should probably stop roaming the empty corridors like a lonely ghost who decided to possess a set of Mandalorian armor. He should probably stop obsessing over the mysterious young Jedi Knight, who barely even notices him. Who doesn’t need him and his stupid attempts to be useful. Doesn’t need his help. Doesn’t need his protection. Doesn’t need any money or services Din could possibly offer him in exchange for everything he is doing for Grogu and him. He doesn’t need Din Djarin’s _anything_. And Din…

Well, he needs Luke Skywalker’s _everything_.

He is so completely _obsessed_ with the young Jedi that it is virtually pointless to even try to deny it. And he would really like to think he is being subtle about it, but something tells him his little _crush_ is painfully obvious to anyone who has ever seen him and Luke Skywalker interact even for a single minute. Well, to anyone except _Luke himself_ that is.

Fortunately for Din, when it comes to communicating with other sentients, at times, the Jedi boy seems even more lost than him.

Seriously, are all Jedi so dreamy and oblivious? If so, it really _is_ a miracle _any_ of them are even still alive. And it’s very fortunate indeed that Luke has an entirely sensible and pragmatic sister to whom he delegates the right to speak for him on most occasions while he just stands there and smiles, all sweet and charming, but entirely lost in his thoughts and unaware of the real world.

He probably speaks with the Force or something, Din muses, observing him during multiple diplomatic events Chandrila hosts, and, eventually, he realizes that, unless the Force itself informs the Jedi what a lovesick mess Din Djarin is, his secret should be entirely safe with him. After all, if the Jedi barely pays any attention to the visiting Senators and royalty all but _throwing_ themselves at him, then he surely won’t notice a mere, humble Mandalorian like him nursing his foolish, overboard drama.

Still, it’s probably better to stay on the safe side and try to keep any unnecessary interactions to a minimum.

Yes. 

Right. 

It sounds like a plan. A good, sensible plan. And it might even work. If only Luke Skywalker hadn’t swallowed a blasted _beskar_ _magnet_.

Is that even a thing? Din doesn’t know, obviously. But it must be. Otherwise, why else would Din feel like he is being constantly _drawn_ to the Jedi, as if by a strange, inexplicable gravitational pull?

Why does he always know exactly where to find the Jedi in his huge, desolate Temple?

Why can’t he stay away when he so clearly should?

Why does he always feel the need to run after him – to tear his helmet off and beg him to _please, please look_ at him?

Must be some kind of weird Jedi trick. Yes, Luke Skywalker has probably cursed him. And now even though he tries his best to walk up the marble steps of the Temple _calmly_ , his legs, which seem to have acquired a mind of their own, keep trying to break into a run, as if they feel that the whole world is falling into an abyss behind them.

Din storms into the Jedi’s study. The double doors slam against the walls, and Din bumps into the silence as if it were an actual tangible barrier.

Everything is as usual: a cool draft is struggling to penetrate the heavy curtains and sneak into the dusty room; the old-fashioned chronometer ticks off an even rhythm; the walls seem to be pressing down with their ancient, massive weight, making Din feel like nothing more than a tiny little bug in comparison.

_Everything is as usual._

But Din just _knows_ his legs can’t be wrong, and if they have brought him here with such urgency, then the world must really be crumbling to pieces behind him.

Well, if that is the case, then the marble steps are obviously already gone too, and there is no way back. Just the door ahead leading to the Jedi’s private quarters.

And Din’s hand is already reaching for the door knob…but _no_.

No, he can’t go into the private living space uninvited. No way.

_No kriffing way._

The Jedi will kill him. He most definitely will. And if not him – then that cheeky droid of his. He is probably programmed to trample an intruder to death, or something even more gruesome (Din would not be surprised in the slightest).

So no. No, he won’t go inside. He won’t. He _won’t._ He–

He hears a faint groan of pain on the other side of the old-school wooden door.

_Luke!_

Din’s heart jumps into his throat with the sudden wave of terror that washes over him.

_Luke is hurt!_

And all his inner wrangle is immediately pushed aside, along with the door.

He rushes down the corridor, barely registering his surroundings. He follows the sound, as if yanked towards its source by a grappling line wrapped tightly and painfully around his chest.

_Luke is hurt! Luke is in pain!_

Din’s heart is thumping deafeningly against his ribcage.

Only it isn’t _pain_ he’s heard at all.

It’s _passion_.

And Din’s heart stops altogether.

*****

The bedroom door is slightly ajar, just like that day in the Halls of Training, and because his life has clearly taught him nothing, Din throws a quick glance inside – to where Luke Skywalker’s bare skin is glistening with sweat in the dim light of the room; to where his golden bangs are plastered to his damp forehead as he arches on the bed and throws his head back onto his pillow; to where…there is a man kneeling on the floor between his thighs.

The air gets stuck in Din’s windpipe with the sound akin to a death rattle, but it doesn’t give his uninvited presence away – it just gets lost among the lewd, slurping noises the man is making as he swallows around the Jedi’s dick.

And Din watches, watches – with wild, shocked fascination – how the man’s head is bobbing, up and down, up and down, between Luke Skywalker’s bent knees.

The Jedi exhales with a shaky moan, and his gloved hand reaches down, between his thighs, to fist into his lover’s hair with a harsh grip, making him take in _more_.

The man groans obscenely around a mouthful of cock, and Din staggers back from the door, as if the sound has _slapped_ him out of his astonished daze.

His heart is pounding so hard and painfully it must have already broken through his rib cage and now is banging against the beskar, trying to find its way out.

_Oh, stars!_

Din’s mouth hangs open, hoping to draw in at least a single breath of air, but all in vain. There is no _air_ around him anymore, and the only thing that fills his lungs with every rattling breath he wheezes in is the heady scent of Luke Skywalker’s lust.

Din’s shaking fingers scrape at the polished surface of his helmet in a desperate, panicked attempt to take it off.

_Come on! Come on!_

He feels as though he is drowning inside it, gurgling and choking on the Jedi’s moans and sighs that are suffusing everything around him.

But then the blasted bucket is off – and it’s no better. It’s worse even. Much, _much_ worse. Because now it’s Din’s _own eyes_ , without the cold indifference of the visor, that roam over the obscenity happening in the room when he clings back to the thin crack between the two heavy leaves of the door.

_Kriff._

Din’s sweat-slick forehead presses into the wooden surface with a soft thud as he pants, his chest heaving and his mouth hanging open, like a wild dog.

And he watches, watches, with dark, hungry eyes as the Jedi boy lifts his back in a beautiful arch and pushes into his lover’s mouth – frantic and unrestrained in his desire – holding the man’s head in place with a merciless grip and making him _take it_ , seemingly paying no mind to his lover’s comfort and only chasing his own pleasure.

And the man moans and chokes around him like a Hutt’s cheap pleasure slave, writhing and squirming under the Jedi’s grip on his hair as he tries to get some friction on his own still clothed dick, and all Din can think about is how he wishes he was _him_. The one pleasuring the Jedi. The one on his knees before him, with his head squeezed between his thighs. The one whose hair he is tugging at. The one whose name he calls as he orders him to take his dick all the way in…

Oh, stars, how _amazing_ he would make it for Luke if only he let him. He would take such good care of him. He would pleasure him for _hours_ , never once asking for anything in return. He would _worship_ him. He would let him use him however he pleases. He would _beg_ him to choke him with his dick and he would swallow _every drop_ if only the Jedi allowed him. He doesn’t even need to ask – all he needs to do is snap his fingers, and Din would come running. Like a good, little Mandalorian slut.

He would lavish him with absolute, endless devotion.

He would give his whole life for just one night of the Jedi’s passion.

He would–

The Jedi lets out a petulant, frustrated whine, and Din’s fingers clutch painfully at the helmet in his grip from the unbearable, desperate need to _go_ to him, to _do_ something, to show him that he could be so much better than this man ever will, that he would do _anything_ to satisfy his little prince.

The Jedi boy whimpers again, urgent and needy.

“ _Highness_ …” Din breathes out in response, panting wetly against the hard surface of the door and barely holding himself back from bursting into the room and running to him.

In his lust-suffused mind’s eye, Din already envisions how he would push the inept stranger away from Luke and–

But Luke doesn’t need his help with that either: the man between his legs moans and shudders with a sudden release, and the Jedi groans with frustration, roughly pushing him away with his foot on his shoulder. “Ugh! I thought I _told_ you not to come before _I_ have.”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, General,” the man pleads with him immediately, his voice hoarse from how hard the Jedi was fucking into his mouth just a moment ago. “I really tried not to, sir. I really did. I–”

But Luke is not interested in listening to his excuses, and the Force unceremoniously flings the man’s shirt into his face.

“Get out.”

The man scrambles to obey, still muttering his pathetic apologies, and as Din makes himself let go of the door and flee before he is discovered, he feels as though he is going to die from the effort.

And why wouldn’t he? _To think_ that he has just had to force himself to go and leave Luke Skywalker aroused and unsatisfied!

It’s not even _his_ fault – it’s _that man’s_ – but the idea itself is absolutely unbearable. Obnoxious. Abysmal. An outright _crime_. And Din doesn’t think he ever has or ever will know such terrible, suffocating _shame_ in his entire life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is not beta'd, so please let me know if you have spotted any mistakes or typos.  
> [BETA WANTED!]  
> If you guys like this concept and want me to continue, please consider leaving a comment or come talk to me on my tumblr:
> 
> <https://the-civilized-jedi.tumblr.com>


	6. If you were mine

Din watches him.

A silent shadow following the Jedi along the dimly lit streets and dark alleys of Hanna City.

He watches him laugh, his head thrown back in delight, as he listens to Han Solo’s ridiculously implausible stories accompanied by Chewbacca’s excited roars.

He watches him eat, and drink, and dance in various seedy cantinas and nightclubs his two no-good smuggler friends take him to.

And he watches him go home with a pilot. A new one every night. Sometimes even two.

They are always older than him, but they call him _sir_ – they call him _General_ , breathless with reverence. And they cling to him, their arms wrapped around his waistline, their faces buried in his neck, and their orange jumpsuits in a glaring, _obnoxious_ contrast with his somber Jedi attire.

And Din wonders how Han Solo can be so kriffing _calm_ as he downs his cheap drinks and just watches them leave with Luke, because Din…

Din wants them all _dead_. He wants to kill them with his bare hands. He–

He does nothing, of course. He has no right, just like Han Solo has none.

Din remembers that conversation, clear as day: that one time he still had no idea what was going on on Chandrila and, based on what he had seen on the landing platform when he first arrived, he _naturally_ assumed that Luke and Han were together. But he was wrong, and the Jedi looked uncomfortable when Din had finally mustered enough courage to ask him about it.

“No, he is Leia’s…” He struggled to find the right word for a while, then gave up altogether. “He is Leia’s.”

And that was that. Although Din suspects he might have gotten an entirely different answer had he asked _Han Solo_ what he thinks. But every night, the smuggler has his arm draped casually around Luke’s shoulders as they sit in a booth together, and Luke smiles at him, bright and fond, and then…he just lets the Jedi boy leave with other men. So no, _nobody kriffing cares_ what Han Solo thinks. Especially not Din.

If _he_ had such an impossible, lucky chance, he would never just waste it so stupidly. But he _doesn’t_ have it, so…

He watches. With greedy desire. With acute jealousy. With inconsolable longing. He watches – even though it is the same story every time: after only a few minutes of passionate moans and sighs, the hapless lovers are thrown out of Luke’s quarters – half-naked and totally embarrassed, with a telling damp spot staining the front of their proud orange uniforms.

They stagger away from the Temple on unsteady feet, as if drunk or shell-shocked, their faces burning with humiliation and their eyes wild. They blindly grope their way along the walls of the nearby houses, seeking purchase. They lean on them heavily, tipping their heads back. They squeeze their eyes shut. They clutch at their hair. They struggle to breathe. And just like that, all of their put-on bravado falls away.

Heroes of the Rebellion – they sob like little boys, hiding their faces in their hands.

Did you really think your General would _keep_ you? Would let you stay? Would call you afterwards and invite you to entertain him again?

He never even asks for your names, you _pathetic fools_.

And why would he if he knows you’re going to come in your pants like horny teenagers the second you feel even an echo of his Force presence around you?

Din shakes his head: it is the same every night – and yet, each time there is no end to those willing to try their luck. No shortage of those thinking they can do better than everyone else. No lack of those who believe they can satisfy Luke Skywalker. Yet, in the end, they all inevitably get burned and scared away by the fire of his passion. And Din is the only one who stays – who listens, _listens_ , his forehead pressed to the closed door and his salivating mouth desperately gasping for air, how the Jedi moans and cries, unrestrained and unashamed of his desire, as he pleasures himself _for hours_. As he drives Din crazy with burning, overwhelming lust.

And he is so loud.

Oh, stars, he is _so loud_.

He moans, and whines, and whimpers, and mewls, and cries. And every sound pierces Din’s entire being with scalding-hot spears of sharp pleasure.

Every wanton _Ah, ahh!_ stings like a blaster bolt.

Every lewd _Mhm…_ feels like a lightsaber burn on Din’s skin.

And he doesn’t even need the visual – the image of Luke’s writhing, arching body is forever imprinted on the inside of his eyelids. It never leaves Din’s feverish mind. Never stops tempting him. Never fails to bring him to his knees before Luke Skywalker’s closed doors as he pants, and gasps, and sobs in unison with the Jedi’s cries of pleasure, his fingers digging into the lush carpeting in the last, desperate attempt to stay put. To stay _away_.

Oh, it’s torture.

It’s _agony_.

Din’s helmet lies discarded on the floor, and his sweat-soaked hair is plastered to his forehead as he urges himself to breathe, _breathe_. To hold on against the crashing waves of the Force just a few more minutes. Just a little bit longer. Just a little...

He cannot afford to make the same mistake those unlucky pilots make: no matter how overwhelmingly _good_ the Jedi’s magic feels, manifesting like that – he _must not_ come too soon. Not before the Jedi is finally satisfied – sprawled carelessly among his rumpled sheets, wrung out and _sated_.

After all, however ridiculous Din’s hope is, it never leaves him: he wants to believe that one of these nights, it will be _him_ who follows the Jedi into his bedroom. And finally _he_ , Din Djarin, will be the one on the other side of those closed doors, making Luke Skywalker tremble and writhe and moan, flushed and delirious with pleasure.

And _his_ pleasure is the only thing that matters, so _no_ , Din must not come too soon. Or at all. Not unless his little Jedi allows him to. Not unless he tells him _what a good and devoted Mandalorian_ he’s been for him.

Stars know, Din wants to be just that. He wants it so, _so badly_. He wants to know that he has taken care of his little prince. Satisfied his every need. Fulfilled his every wish. Made him feel just as pampered and endlessly adored as he deserves to be. Worshiped like a divine being. Held in absolute reverence. Lavished with every praise and affection imaginable.

“ _My prince_...” Din’s lips whisper fervently, deliriously, over and over again.

A call. A plea. A prayer.

But there is a thick wall of the Jedi Temple separating them, and Din’s god can’t hear him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is not beta'd, so please let me know if you have spotted any mistakes or typos.  
> [BETA WANTED!]  
> If you guys like this concept and want me to continue, please consider leaving a comment or come talk to me on my tumblr:
> 
> <https://the-civilized-jedi.tumblr.com>


	7. Worst rescue ever

Everyone on Chandrila knows that jubilant _clink-clank_ of glasses, the sound of splashing Corellian wine and joyful, ringing laughter are a vital part of any chic celebration or, at the very least, a good feast, which both, however, inevitably end in about the same way: dirty jokes and a discordant chorus that performs the New Republic’s anthem, after which all the guests snore under the tables until morning.

And, of course, everyone knows that alcohol is the worst enemy, but most people prefer to see it as a _necessary evil,_ which there is simply no point in fighting.

However, one hero who decided to challenge it, still exists. And he is ready to fight till the end.

Din Djarin, the Marshal of Hanna City, is walking down the stairs of the Senate House. A party is booming behind him, but Din is sober and angry as all hells. And it’s not that he is sneaking out... Just _treading carefully_. 

No need to attract too much attention, right? Well, more than he usually does, covered in beskar from head to toe and all.

Only a dozen more steps left to go, and he will be free–

“Ah, Mandalorian! Leaving so soon?” 

Din freezes, one foot raised over the next step. His heart sinks into his stomach.

_Blast the Jedi and his stupid magic!_

Is it even humanly possible to slip away from him unnoticed?

Din gulps and turns around. Slowly. Like a bantha in the headlights.

“It is rather _unbecoming_ of the City Marshal to run away so _shamefully_ , don’t you think?” The Jedi’s voice is dripping with the taunt. “Especially, when my sister has organized this whole event for _your_ department and in _your_ honor.”

Din stares up at the dark silhouette a few steps above him, mysterious and almost surreal in the unsteady glow of the floating party lights, and doesn’t dare to even breathe.

The thing is, the Jedi has this amazing ability to tower over people, all impressive and formidable and dramatic (even when sitting in a chair), and right now…

Right now, he is looming over Din’s pathetic figure like a demon of retribution, ready to punish him for showing complete and blatant disregard for all of his sister’s efforts. And frankly, Din is even a little grateful for the fact that the Jedi’s fancy party outfit of black brocade and flowing silk has no room for that lightsaber of his. Not that he couldn’t kill him without it, of course. Hell, even Princess Organa could probably strangle him with her bare hands. And she totally _will_ if she finds out he tried to sneak away from her party.

Din sighs, lowering his head.

The Jedi crosses his arms over his chest.

Oh well, looks like there is nothing to lose. Din lifts his chin and takes a step up.

“You’re right, Your Highness, it’s not appropriate for the City Marshal to run away from a celebration like that.” Din watches the Jedi raise his eyebrows, an incredulous expression on his face.

Up to this moment, he’s probably had no idea Din can even speak in coherent sentences, let alone lengthy ones.

Having remembered all those hours he has spent practicing in front of a mirror for occasions exactly like this one, Din sighs again and pushes on, “So could we maybe pretend it’s just a mere Mandalorian bounty hunter sneaking away from a high-end event he had no business attending in the first place?”

Wow! That’s a lot of words! _A whole lot!_ And he’s just said them all. What a night!

Soft laughter echoes among the marble walls.

“I’m sorry that the burden of fame weighs so heavily on you, Mandalorian. I wish I could do something to make it easier to bear,” the Jedi says solemnly, taking a step down the stairs, and now Din has a unique opportunity to count all the tiny little buttons on the high collar of the Jedi’s civilian attire – now mere inches away from his face. His flushed, sweating face.

_Thank the stars for his helmet!_

There is a moment of deafening silence – only Din’s wildly thumping heart to be heard for what must be _miles_ around – and then the Jedi leans down, just slightly, to whisper into the polished surface of his helmet right beside Din’s ear.

“Someone is coming up the stairs slowly and quietly.”

“Someone is _sneaking in!_ ” Din’s bounty hunter brain translates immediately. And not even a moment later, Din already pushes the Jedi, none too politely, into a dark alcove behind one of the marble columns, shielding him from whoever it is on the stairs with his body.

Just in case.

*****

It isn’t until Din is so caught between Luke Skywalker and the column that it is difficult to draw even a single breath that he realizes: the alcove is actually only big enough for one person to hide inside. And for the first time in his life, he wishes he wasn’t wearing his armor.

“Don’t worry, Your Highness, I’ll deal with it,” Din whispers solemnly, the cold metal of his helmet pressed against the side of the Jedi’s face. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but you understand–”

The man’s only response is a sharp exhale. A huff.

Oh, he _understands_. And he is _laughing_ at him and his pathetic attempts to play his protector.

A bodyguard for a Jedi.

What can possibly be more _ridiculous?_

But Luke Skywalker is playing a civilian tonight. He doesn’t have his laser blade with him, so maybe it is finally Din’s chance to prove himself useful. _Worthy._

The Jedi’s exhales, softly this time, turning his head just slightly, and his breath fogs Din’s visor, making the little hairs on his neck stand on end.

Din can feel the Jedi’s sharp knee pressing against his thigh, can smell the faint scent of Corellian wine and _danger_ coming from him, can hear his own heart pounding like crazy, trying to break through the beskar and jump out of his chest. And, as always, he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

_Dank farrik._

The Jedi, however, knows _exactly_ what to do with his hands. They scramble up against Din’s polished chest plates in a futile attempt to push him back and put more distance between their bodies. There is no room for that though – the alcove is too narrow. And all Din can do is brace his hands on the wall on both sides of the Jedi’s head to steady himself – to _stop_ himself from pushing into his lithe body even closer because there is _nothing_ he wants more.

It is a strange, frightening thought that Din doesn’t want to pursue. Thankfully, at that moment, his sharpened senses catch a faint rustle of footsteps.

“They’re close,” the Jedi whispers, confirming Din’s assessment of the situation.

Din hums, ready to spring into action, but suddenly feels unable to move. Unable to function properly at all, to be more precise. All because Luke Skywalker’s palms are sliding up his chest to rest on his shoulders in a silent order to _stay_.

“We should wait and see what they are up to.”

And Din _knows_ they should. He really does. That’s how it works, after all. But he is afraid that if he waits for even one more minute, he will… Well, the Jedi might feel exactly how much Din… _admires_ him.

“I can’t move,” the Jedi breathes out – almost _whines_ in annoyance – tipping his head back against the wall. “Will you get my blaster for me?”

And Din thinks he will do literally _anything_ for him. Anything at all. Just… Not right now. Because his operating system has just crashed and won’t reboot, a single thought blinking in his mind in huge red letters with a blaring alert sound:

IF IT WAS NOT FOR YOUR STUPID HELMET, YOU COULD BE PRESSING YOUR LIPS TO HIS NECK RIGHT NOW.

“Please, Mandalorian,” the Jedi urges breathlessly, and Din’s whole body shudders with blinding pleasure before he even has a chance to realize that he is just being asked for that blaster again.

“It’s strapped to the back of my right thigh, just above the knee.”

Right.

_Right._

Din just nods, not knowing if the Jedi can see that in the darkness of the alcove but not exactly trusting his voice to speak either.

He swallows and squeezes his eyes shut as he lets his hand slide down the Jedi’s hip to his lower thigh – slowly, _slowly_ – feeling the tense muscles through the expensive fabric of his robes.

_Oh, stars!_

“ _Din_ …” the Jedi exhales hotly, _urgently_ , and the sound of his own name sends a charge of electric pleasure crackling down Din’s spine.

“Huh?” is all he can manage, still groping the Jedi’s thigh and fumbling for that blaster with a clumsy, trembling hand.

“It’s the wrong leg,” the Jedi says at last.

“...!!!!!” Din thinks.

And after a few more confused, awkward seconds, the blasted blaster (must be Han Solo’s gift) is finally found.

The stealthy shadow has just moved past the hidden alcove when Din cautiously steps out from behind the column and peers into the gloom of the main staircase. But even in the dim, tremulous light of Chandrila’s moon filtering through the tall narrow windows, his eyes cannot possibly be lying to him.

“Paz Vizsla.”

The figure flinches and whirls around.

“Din Djarin. We meet again.”

A moment passes. Then another. With nothing but the tense, ringing silence gathering like a dark, stormy cloud, between the two armored men.

And then it thunders with the sound of their blasters’ safety clicking off.

“What are you doing here, Paz?” Din sighs tiredly, pointing his gun at the unprotected spot between his chest plate and his right pauldron.

“Oh, don’t worry. Even though you are a _disgrace_ to our Tribe, Djarin,” Paz Vizsla grits through his teeth in clear anger, “I’m not actually here for _you_.”

“A disgrace?” Din’s eyebrows would crawl up in surprise if he wasn’t so emotionally wrung out already.

Vizsla’s voice is now shaking with fury, clearly offended by Din’s indifferent ignorance.

“Aren’t you the one who’s lost the Darksaber – my ancestral weapon, my _birthright_ – to the greatest enemy of Mandalore?”

Oh. _That._

Din has almost forgotten about that. But, apparently, Vizsla hasn’t.

“You could have become the Mand’alor, could have brought glory to our Tribe,” he rants on and on, taking a step forward, his blaster pointed at Din’s chest. “But, instead, you betrayed us and became nothing but an _errand boy_ for that _Jetii_ of yours.”

He spits out the last words with clear disgust, but Din fails to see any offense in them.

He doesn’t mind being that. He _likes_ being that.

This is his new Way.

Vizsla’s next words make him outright _flare_ with fury though.

“Where is that… _twink_ anyway?” he asks with open disdain in his voice.

“How _dare_ you–” Din chokes with indignation, his finger twitching on the trigger, but in the next moment...

“Oh, I’m right here.” A dark figure melts out of the shadows with a chuckle and a blaster at the ready.

No armor. 

No lightsaber.

Who the hell goes into battle like that?

Apparently, this stupid, _reckless_ Jedi boy does.

He wears no armor because he needs none.

He wears the Force instead. It is his shield and his sword. It will protect him. It won’t let anything happen to him. Din _knows_ that. But somehow, it doesn’t make him panic any less, seeing the Jedi like this – _vulnerable_ – even if it’s nothing more than a deceptive appearance.

He told him to _stay in the alcove_ , dammit!

Din’s heart skips a beat while his mind tries to calculate the speed with which he needs to jump in front of the Jedi to be able to cover him with his body when Vizsla shoots him. And Vizsla _will_ shoot him. Of that Din is certain. If there is something Paz Vizsla hates even more than the Empire – it is definitely the Jedi Order.

Hardly has Din thought about it, when Vizsla’s blaster turns to point at Luke Skywalker’s chest.

“Give me the Darksaber, or I’ll kill you, _you Jedi scum!_ ”

“I’ll kill you first, Paz!” Din growls his warning, but the other Mandalorian ignores him, all his attention directed at the Jedi now.

And the Jedi just smiles at him – sweet and carefree – as he suggests, “Perhaps, you want to drop your gun and surrender yourself to me instead?”

It’s more of a statement than a question really, but however charming and persuasive the Jedi thinks himself to be, still, Din highly doubts that mere words would be enough to deal with Paz Vizsla.

Din’s hand clenches around his blaster. He’d hate to kill one of his own people, but when it comes to a choice between that and losing Luke Skywalker, well… It’s not really a choice at all.

But before he can pull the trigger, aiming for Vizsla’s neck – to Din’s utter shock, the man’s gun indeed falls out of his grip and clatters down the steps to land at the Jedi’s feet.

“Very good, Mandalorian.” The Jedi nods, lowering his own blaster with a satisfied smile. “Now get down on your knees. Hands behind your back.”

And Din just…

He just…

He suddenly imagines those words in an entirely different context – addressed to _him_ – and barely manages to stop himself at the very last moment, when his knees have almost buckled under him, eager to obey the quiet command.

_Very good, Mandalorian._

But it’s not _him_ the Jedi has given the order to.

_Not him._

_Never him._

Din wants to scream.

Paz Vizsla drops to his knees, his head lowered in submission, and even though Din wishes nothing more than to just cut his throat right now – to let that bastard’s blood spill down the white marble steps and pool at the Jedi’s feet – he just sighs instead.

“Paz of Clan Vizsla, you are under arrest for an attempted murder of General Luke Skywalker and treason against the New Republic.”

There are a few guards already rushing up the stairs towards them.

Having hastily bowed to the Jedi, they try to explain their obvious failure at protecting the Senate Building, but he just waves them off.

“Take him to the Security Force headquarters. Search him for weapons first but do _not_ remove his helmet.”

Vizsla gasps in clear surprise, but doesn’t say anything as the guards take him away.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” Din utters for him, barely audibly, sudden emotion tightening his throat at the unexpected and unnecessary kindness.

The Jedi didn’t have to show mercy but he did it anyway. And Din almost expects him to school his expression into that emotionless mask of serenity he usually wears and say something along the lines of _‘it is the Jedi way’_ , but what he gets instead is a soft smile and a shrug. “That was the right thing to do.”

*****

Sometimes it seems to Din that he functions on pure instincts – his body simply _refuses_ to die just because its stupid brain can’t take proper care of it. And even if his mind shuts down, his body is always ready to carry on for at least a little while longer. And, frankly, Din could use a little bit of that magic right now.

He is dizzy. Probably still high on all the residual adrenaline.

He’s only managed to reach the garden surrounding the Senate Building when his legs give way, refusing to hold him up anymore.

He sits down on the dew-soaked grass, leaning on a trunk of a huge tree.

He fumbles with his comm, trying to call Peli and check if she’s already tucked Grogu in (and also, maybe finally tell her how _grateful_ he is for her agreeing to move here, to Chandrila, and help him with the babysitting), but the small device treacherously falls from his trembling fingers and disappears in the wet grass.

Din sighs and bangs his head back against the trunk.

He is just not equipped for _so much kriffing stress!_

He peers into the dark canopy, as if searching for an answer to the eternal question.

_What the hell am I doing?_

That is a good question. Really good.

Din has been thinking about it _a lot_ lately. But now, not even the existential crisis can distract Din from the images of the last hour flashing before his eyes entirely against his will.

_The blasted party._

_The blasted Luke Skywalker raising his glass in Din’s honor._

_His blasted face burning under his blasted helmet._

Kriff.

Din squeezes his eyes shut, naively hoping that it might help ward the images off.

Well, it doesn’t.

They are still crowding in on him, like a swarm of annoying insects swirling around his head.

_The kriffing pompous bastards shaking his hand, and their wives winking at him as if they had a bad case of a nervous tic._

_They all drink and laugh and gossip and drink again._

_Unfamiliar faces, fancy dresses and intricate fans flash by, and Din cringes at the scrutiny of the stares directed at him. They make him feel naked, even though he is wearing his full armor._

_But the only eyes he wouldn’t really mind on himself – the impossible sky-blue eyes – are not looking at him._

_Luke Skywalker is not looking at him._

_Din Djarin is too ordinary to hold his attention. Too boring. Too trivial._

_Invisible._

_Well, then it should be quite easy to escape unnoticed, right?_

_Wrong._

_And he is immediately caught like a naughty child. And he almost expects to be smacked. In fact, he_ wants _to be._

_But the dark silhouette of the Jedi only seems sinister in the shadows of the dimly lit staircase. And in the darkness of the niche – oh, stars! – it is soft, and fragile, and feels just heavenly, pressed up against Din’s body…_

Din looks on, as if from afar, his cheeks flushed scarlet and the front of his pants already a wet, sticky mess, but he is just _physically_ unable to stop recalling that moment.

His skin feels like it is on fire, his forehead covered with sweat and the air outright _refusing_ to push its way into his lungs. His lashes flutter, and heat spreads across his cheeks when he finally touches himself through his clothes, moaning like a cheap whore in the dark silence of the nightly park.

_He is so close, so close… If it wasn’t for his blasted beskar, Din would feel every inch of the Jedi’s body pressed so tightly – so sinfully – into his own._

_Din is completely out of breath and so turned on he can’t think straight. Not that he ever could in the first place, but this is somehow even worse. His blood is pounding against his eardrums with a deafening, merciless rhythm, and Din knows he needs to be thinking about the possible assassin and listen to Luke who is saying something about a blaster, but… The Jedi’s hot whisper against the cold metal of his helmet is making Din’s knees buckle, and all he can do is pray to all the gods and even the Force itself that it would end now. Or that it would never ever end._

_And then, Din’s last coherent thought (if there has ever been any) is lost in the chaos of sensations when his palm slides down the Jedi’s thigh, pressing tightly against the fabric._

_Din bites his lip until it bleeds, trying not to moan. He should be quiet. He should not even breathe because he knows that if he does, his every inhale will sound like a broken sob and every exhale – like a shameless whine._

_I love him. I love him. I love him. The thought beats like a pulse in Din’s head. Clear. Powerful. Euphoric._

_But it doesn’t go any further. It is trapped inside Din’s Mandalorian helmet. It is trapped in Din’s Mandalorian mind. Repressed and destined to drown in shame and guilt forever…_

When the red haze before his eyes has cleared and his body stopped shaking convulsively, Din rises from the ground.

The front of his pants is a total mess now, but it’s nothing compared to his flushed, sweaty, tear-stained face.

And perhaps, it’s a good thing he has his helmet on at all times. At least that way, no one can see the mess that Din Djarin is. Not unless they look closely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is not beta'd, so please let me know if you have spotted any mistakes or typos.  
> [BETA WANTED!]  
> If you guys like this concept and want me to continue, please consider leaving a comment or come talk to me on my tumblr:
> 
> <https://the-civilized-jedi.tumblr.com>


End file.
